It Comes Down to This
by Rebukes
Summary: And God gave him Matt. Mello's prize. Mello's reward for fighting against every filthy thing that would destroy humanity embodied in one person.


It starts with the line of a jaw, sharp and straight, leading down to a long throat. Further: a ridiculous shirt; collar askew, sleeves too long. And beneath it, something that has to be soft skin, something that has to be pale and perfect, begging to have nails scraped over the surface, a mouth tasting its flavor. It's something that Mello hasn't sampled yet, only looked, only let his mind wander when it was supposed to be otherwise occupied because _Jesus Christ_, Matt looks severely fuckable when he's doing nothing at all.

He should be focusing on the ordeal at hand. Save the world, take care of personal shit later, or avoid it altogether. Let it travel to the back of his thoughts where it belongs, where it's been since he was sixteen years old, sprawled out over a tattered couch; newly-acquired leather chafing at his skin, surrounded by a bunch of people that he was sure L should have taken down long ago, based on principle alone. When all he could think was, _I want to go home._

Matt was home.

Matt is the ordeal.

Here, back with Mello. Where he should be. Where he should have been three years ago, but three years is a long time when you're trying to get ahead, trying your best to hold on to any semblance of normalcy possible in order to preserve your sanity.

A glance. Green eyes rimmed by thick lashes flitting to his own, a languid blink that for all of its lack of emotion, seems to be saying, _Come here. Come here and fuck me because nothing else is going to sate it. And you know this._

Mello knows.

The first kiss is awkward. The first kiss is always awkward; hesitation on both their parts, too many clothes in the way, too much unspoken bullshit threatening to spill between each movement of their lips, each shift against each other but _Oh, God,_ when Matt makes that little sound, it isn't the first time anymore.

It hasn't been the first time for a very, very long time.

_Don't fight me, don't fight me, don't—_ And Matt sometimes does; sometimes pushes at Mello's chest, looks at him and asks him what the fuck he's doing. Guarded eyes and pursed lips. Resistance, denial, all of the things that kept them from doing this for so long. Matt exhibits this from time to time, and Mello thinks that it's just his way of denying that he wants it like fucking breath. Because when his hand slips under that stupid shirt, when fingers splay over that heated skin, the shield covering those eyes falls, opens up things that Mello wants to devour.

Because these are his things.

_Mine,_ every movement of his hips against Matt's says, every touch, every nip over pale skin. _Mine, mine, mine._

This is resolution. This is a claim. This is letting walls drop and forgetting about the fucking world long enough to taste salt between his teeth, push the flat of his tongue over a bared throat. Life. Matt is life and death and everything in between; pulling, _pulling_ until Mello breaks, dips his hand to tug open a button, then a zipper, and when his fingers slip inside of denim—

_Fuck ._

"We're not supposed to be doing this." A pointless, breathless protest against Mello's mouth. And his mouth is so hungry; seeking and tasting, tongue delving in between lips, the bitter taste of smoke making him harder than it should.

But who is Matt to protest on the basis of morality? Mello wears the fucking crucifix around his neck, Mello gave himself to God a long, long time ago.

And God gave him Matt. Mello's prize. Mello's reward for fighting against every filthy thing that would destroy humanity embodied in one person. He fights it. He sleeps in it. He washes himself in sin. Here. Now. Because nothing matters once his fingers wrap around Matt's cock, which despite his protest, is straining, aching to be touched. Juices dripping from the tip, wet and slick under long, demanding fingers.

"And what are we supposed to be doing then?" Clothes are stripped off languidly, dropped to the side and then—then there is skin against skin. Two bodies that are so, so very different melding together as though created just to touch, to feel. Matt was made to claim. It's apparent his supple skin, the way long limbs wrap around Mello's waist without further urging. "Fighting the world? Fucking other people and pretending it's the right thing to do?" An arch of a fine brow. _This_ is the right thing to do.

This.

Mello has made his peace with God. And Matt needs to make peace with himself, so he can stop squeezing his eyes shut at the slide of a hand over his torso, a body slipping down until lips trace over the underside of his length; teasing and tasting. Just kiss. Just lick. Just take it whole until the back of Mello's throat is overcome by pressure; soft, insistent suckling noises the only sounds in the room besides Matt's occasional slip.

And, oh. Mello loves it when he slips. Proof of ownership; sprawled across a thin sheet of paper, stamped with his fucking name. His. _His._ Not anyone's. Not Near's. Not L's. Not fucking Kira's. Matt is his thing, his ordeal, his cross to bear.

And he bears it with the tightening of his mouth, lips slipping down and working over, tongue dragging up along a vein and then—_then_

"Oh, God, fuck me. "

The first thrust is never painful. Never awkward. It's hard and swift and when he's inside, Mello finally lets go, himself. Lets his eyes flutter shut, lets his mouth bury itself into the crook of Matt's throat until he is groaning in frustration because goddamnit, he just wants to _move._

So he does.

_Press in further. Because he's yours. He can whine and cry out and protest in breathless pants all he wants._

Nothing will ever be this tight around him, this satisfying. Nothing will take him in and own him as much as he owns it. Not like this. Not ever, and not anywhere else. Here. Now. Inside of his best friend turned lover.

No.

_No._

There is no love in this act. Only gratification and bruising thrusts, teeth digging into skin: biting, marking, claiming. This is seeing an ordeal to the end.

_Ah—_

"Sofuckinggood." A single word composed of more, forced out in a harsh breath, tense legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, urging him: _harder._

Hips rocking against each other, moans mingling in what was once silence, and lips are sought, chewed at, licked over; saliva coating the corners of their mouths only to be lapped back up.

"Don't st—"

"Sshh, I'm not."

A leaking cock against his stomach, bodies pressed together tightly; juices smearing over his skin and then he looks, looks because he has to see, has to know and…

Matt's eyes are closed; lashes touching flushed skin. Lips are parted, taking in shallow, quick breaths, and then—

And then.

"Fuck. Fuck—ah, you're—"

Hot liquid against his skin, smearing over his torso, dripping and staining sheets because no matter what, they're always so goddamn _sloppy_ with everything.

The tightening of his stomach, heat pooling and tugging and moving lower, into them, into their sex, their denial, their refusal to ever speak of the act after its finished, but this time…

"Tell me."

"Mm, no. Just…just come, _God, it stings._"

_Tell me._

But it's over before Matt caves, which is to his benefit. Mello presses his teeth against a sharp shoulder, groans low in his throat at the sensation (_so tight, so tight_), comes hard, keeps thrusting because—

Because.

_The ordeal is far from over._


End file.
